It's A Hollow Play
by StagNight
Summary: They say a cockroach can live up to a week without its head. Harry wonders how long he could live without his head. Feels he's already lost it. Feels his days are certainly numbered.
1. Chapter 1

On a hot summer afternoon, sat upon a swing in the middle of a deserted playground, Harry decides there are two Harry Potters.

There is The Boy Who Lived, whom everyone knows. A legend, Harry thinks detachedly. A story that will be passed on through generations.

Then there is the boy who survives, whom no one knows. An average boy, nothing worth sparing a second glance at.

Harry compares the latter to a cockroach. Stamped down, but still kicking.

They say a cockroach can live up to a week without its head. He wonders how long he could live without his head. Feels he's already lost it.

Feels his days are certainly numbered.

* * *

A green flash. Blank eyes sunken in a once-handsome face. Reminiscent of another green flash. A woman's voice. Screaming. Calling his name, _Harry_! The Cruciatus Curse. Relentless. Unforgiving. _Harry_! The scream was getting closer, louder, and deeper. _Harry_!

"HARRY!"

Harry Potter woke with a start, scar throbbing. His heart was pounding. He gasped for air as he took in his environment. Without his glasses, all he could see were dark blobs surrounding him. It reminded him of being surrounded by death eaters in the graveyard. Watching, laughing, as Voldemort cursed him.

 _This doesn't help_. He berated himself, and forced his mind to concentrate.

The darkness told him it was still night time. The pounding on his door and the soreness in his throat told him he'd been screaming in his sleep. The clicking of locks being undone told him he was going to pay for it.

The door swung open and hallway light filtered in. He saw a large mass moving towards him. Felt large beefy hands grab at his collar and hoist him inches off the mattress. The grip was tight and carried the full weight of a threat.

A snarl in his ear, "one more noise from his room, boy, and you're going to wish you had never been born." Harry was dropped with a dull thud, and the mass shuffled back to the door. There was a loud slam, followed by more clicking of locks.

Harry sank back down into the hard mattress. Let out the breath he'd been holding. His mind was still reeling from the dream, and it took moments to process Vernon's words.

He did not want to go to sleep, though he knew he would need the rest for tomorrow. He stared at the ceiling, and imagined he was somewhere else.

* * *

The next time Harry woke, the sun was rising above the houses of Privet Drive. The sky was painted pink and orange.

There was a rapping on the door, and for a moment he panicked. But it was only Aunt Petunia. She regarded him, and for a moment he thought he saw a flash of pity on her face. Almost.

"Breakfast." She barked at him, and disappeared from the doorway, leaving Harry to get dressed.

He rubbed his eyes blearily and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He pulled on his old hand-me-downs from Dudley and set his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

When he came down to the kitchen, he found Aunt Petunia sitting at the kitchen table, reading a magazine. Uncle Vernon was already at work. Harry was pleased to find that Dudley was still asleep, meaning he could cook in peace.

He started the tea pot on the stove, then set to work frying bacon and scrambling eggs.

By the time he was putting the bread in the toaster, Dudley was awake.

He heard heavy footfalls down the stairs, and soon his cousin came storming into the kitchen.

"And how did you sleep, Duddy?" Aunt Petunia asked him pleasantly.

"Poorly." Dudley casted a glare in Harry's direction. "Thanks to you. What were you even on about? Screaming in your sleep."

Harry ignored him. He set the prepared food out on the table and hoped it would distract Dudley into forgetting his question. It worked. Dudley dug in, effectively ignoring Harry's presence.

Petunia waited until he's filled his plate before she began to pile food onto hers.

Harry lingered, hopeful. Petunia eyed him, and then let out a sigh. "Dudley, give him a piece of toast."

Dudley, surprisingly, does as he's told. Almost. Instead of handing the toast out to Harry, he drops it onto the floor. "For keeping me up. Freak."

Harry bites his tongue and picks it up, then retreats to his room.

* * *

The rest of Harry's day consisted of more chores: scrub the bathrooms, wash the dishes, sanitize the kitchen, and tend to the garden. He had to finish before Uncle Vernon came home. That was the only rule on chore days. That and stay out of the way and keep quiet. But he always tried to do that anyway.

* * *

Harry sat hunched over a garden, carefully uprooting the weeds growing amongst the flowers. The back of his neck was bright red from the mid-afternoon sun. His hands were scraped up from the thorns of the thistles and nettles.

The earthy smell brings him back to the graveyard. He quickly pushed those thoughts aside. Tried hard not to think of Cedric's blank face. Of Voldemort rising form the cauldron. Of being bound, helpless, in the arms of the angel statue.

He still has bruises from where the stone had ground into his arms. He wears Dudley's old long-sleeve shirts to hide them, per Aunt Petunia's insistence, should the neighbors see and question.

Harry sat back in the dirt, heart racing. The graveyard had happened just over a week ago. Today was his first day back with the Dursleys. They were their usual unpleasant selves picking him up from King's Cross the previous day. Not that he had expected them to be any different.

Already, he missed Ron and Hermione.

* * *

Harry finished early that day. His reward was that he didn't have to be locked in his room the rest of the afternoon. He had free range – the rules being: 1. Don't talk to the neighbors, and 2. No "freaky" stuff. He wasn't sure what all the second rule meant, exactly, but he followed it as best he could.

The summer was a particularly hot one. The neighborhood streets were deserted; no one wanted to be outside in the blazing heat. Harry decided to go to the park.

He sat on a swing and kicked off the ground, lazily pushing and pulling himself backward and forward.

It was quiet there, with the absence of children. Peaceful, with the absence of the Dursleys. Harry could sit alone with his thoughts.

* * *

That night, Harry dreamt of the bodies of his friends strewn across the floor. Blank, lifeless faces where he'd known smiles. He felt horror. He felt guilt.

He woke up screaming into the night. The scream was cut off by large hands around his throat. Terror. He tried to fight off his attacker, but could not find the strength in his arms.

His second instinct kicked in – he went limp.

Almost immediately the hands loosened, and then let go. Harry scrambled backwards, nearly falling off the other side of the bed in his desperation to get away.

"I warned you, boy. One more noise." The familiar but unfriendly voice of Uncle Vernon ground out. "What will the neighbors say if they hear you?! You must've woken up all of Little Whinging!"

"I'm sorry, sir." Harry gasped, hands massaging his bruised neck.

"Just keep it down." Vernon growled. He turned and stomped out of the room, leaving Harry cowering in the darkness.

* * *

The weeks dragged on. With each passing day, the list of chores grew longer, and his meager meals grew fewer and farther in between. He was quickly running out of energy. Lately he had been finishing his chores just before Uncle Vernon came home.

He had not heard a word from any of his friends or Sirius. He didn't mind at first; he figured they were just busy.

Harry did not see Dudley so often. He was always out with his gang, smoking and vandalizing and tormenting grade-schoolers. But there was hell when he was around.

Dudley always had his hands on Harry, whether he was punching him or holding him in a choke hold. Harry hated it. Hated hands on him. And Dudley knew it. Exploited it. Sometimes he would simply run his large hand across Harry's boney shoulders just to watch him squirm.

* * *

One day Harry did not finish his chores on time. For that, he found himself locked in his (Dudley's old) bedroom with the promise of no meals for a week.

From beneath the floorboards, he brandished a piece of parchment, a quill, and a bottle of ink. Perhaps his friends were waiting for him to write first. He wrote out a letter to Ron, Hermione, and Sirius. Surely one of them would answer.

He wrote about how the Dursleys were "their usual selves" and how he couldn't wait to see them – and when could he see them. He didn't say much else than that.

Tomorrow he would be extra good. He would get up and cook breakfast before Aunt Petunia came knocking. He would get the chores done on time.

Then, maybe he would be able to let Hedwig out.

* * *

But Harry didn't get the chores done on time. He was sitting on the roof, resting before he started on the gutters, when Uncle Vernon's car pulled into the driveway.

"Shit." Harry muttered under his breath.

Uncle Vernon stepped out of the car and looked up at him.

"Have you finished the gutters, boy?" He barked at him.

"No, sir." Harry knew better than to lie.

"Kitchen. Now."

Uncle Vernon walked into the house, and slammed the door behind him. Harry took his time climbing back down the ladder. When he walked inside, Uncle Vernon was waiting for him.

He barely had time to open his mouth to argue his defense when Uncle Vernon struck him hard across the face.

The side of Harry's face was left tingling, and a red patch began to blossom across his cheek.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Dudley smirk from where he sat watching from the table. Aunt Petunia gazed on with pursed lips.

"Do you think you can just sit around lazing about all day?!" Vernon near-shouted. "We put clothes on your back, food in your belly, and this is how you treat us in return?"

"I'm sorry, sir." Harry said. There were plenty of things he would rather say, but he knew better.

Vernon shook his head. " _Sorry_ doesn't cut it. It better not happen again."

Harry ducked his head. He went straight for his room, Uncle Vernon in tow. Impatient, Vernon shoved Harry up the last few steps. Harry stumbled into his room. Vernon slammed the door on his back and locked the numerous locks.

"Two weeks." Were Vernon's final words.

Harry faced the closed door and rubbed the side of his face. He stood there staring until a soft hoot turned his attention to the corner of the room.

"I'm sorry, Hedwig." He said. "I tried. As soon as I can let you out, I will. I promise."

* * *

The next few days passed slowly. Harry spent most of the time pacing back and forth across the small room like a caged animal. About every other day, he was given a meal (passed to him through the cat flap in the door) of a cup of water, a stale slice of bread, and a quarter of a grapefruit. He was allowed to use the restroom twice a day, though he didn't have much (if anything) in his system to expel.

As much as he appreciated Hedwig's company, he thought it was unfair she had to suffer for his failures. Numerous times he pleaded through the door to let her out, but to no avail.

Two weeks ended early when chores built up and Aunt Petunia needed someone to do them.

For once, he was happy to clean the gutters – it meant fresh air. And after doing nothing but sit around for the past few days, he was rested enough to finish the list of chores early.

He went inside and found Aunt Petunia, who was in the living room watching TV. Some gossip station.

He cleared his throat to announce his presence. She looked up at him through narrowed eyes.

"Yes?"

"I was wondering… if I could just please let Hedwig out. She's been in her cage for days." He near-begged.

She pursed her lips and pondered for a moment. "Fine. Wait for nightfall so the neighbors don't see."

"Thank you," Harry said earnestly. But she was no longer paying attention to him.

* * *

With Hedwig gone, Harry was completely alone.


	2. Chapter 2

The waiting game. Harry hated it. Hated sitting idle, waiting to hear anything from anyone.

He took up sitting below the living room window to listen to the news as Aunt Petunia watched it. The usual muggle news: a store robbery, a local hero. But nothing that struck him as related to Voldemort's return. He wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing.

Once he got caught doing this by Uncle Vernon. Vernon had reached out the window and throttled Harry there in the flowerbed, leaving deep purple bruises around his neck. That was the end of that.

* * *

Time seemed to pass slowly on Privet Drive. Hours felt like days, days felt like weeks. The days blurred together into an indistinguishable mass of time.

Harry measured time in relation to the graveyard. For example, he had not had a nice dream since the graveyard. Consequently, he had not slept will since before the graveyard.

* * *

Finally, after what felt like weeks of silence, he received a letter. It was from Sirius. But where he expected to find comfort and happiness in his godfather's words, Harry only found disappointment and frustration. "Stay out of trouble," the letter had said. Coming from Sirius, "stay out of trouble." Harry could not wrap his mind around it. What was that even supposed to mean? As though he had been getting into so much trouble as it was? Not a scrap of news – Harry had checked the envelope twice, because surely there was more. But there wasn't.

* * *

Harry was growing restless and agitated.

He wasn't sleeping well. Nightmares woke him up all throughout the night – scar feeling like it's about to split his forehead in half. And because he wasn't sleeping well, that meant his relatives weren't sleeping well, either.

His relatives did not talk directly to him often. They never had anything nice to say when they did, so Harry did not mind. His responses to them were becoming more and more snarky. He got in trouble for his tongue on numerous occasions.

The continuous work to be done and the lack of sleep and meals were wearing him down. He moved sluggishly, and it showed in his inefficiency at completing the various tasks he had to do.

He spent a lot of time stuck in his mind. Reliving memories old and fresh alike. Watching horrible loops of what-ifs. He often imagined his friends dying. Not intentionally. It was just something that happened. Intrusive macabre images of his friends splayed out on the ground, dead. It was morbid. It made him sick.

He often imagined his own death. He was not afraid of dying. He was more afraid that he would still feel pain even in death. Most days he imagined it would be at the hands of someone else, presumably Lord Voldemort. But sometimes he wondered what would happen if he just… saved everyone the trouble by doing it himself. That line of thinking was dangerous, and he usually tried to push those thoughts away as soon as they would enter his mind.

* * *

Harry would fall into a routine of poor self-care when he's at the Dursleys'. It's not that he would forget to take care of himself – more that he wasn't really given the chance. When he was hungry, he could not feed himself, for he was not allowed in the pantry. When he needed to practice hygiene, he could not bathe or use the toilet, for he was not allowed in the bathrooms. He always had to wait to be given express permission.

He spent most of his days feeling disgusted with himself, to the point he couldn't stand to look at himself. He avoided mirrors and other reflective objects for fear of what he might see.

Harry couldn't stand to look at himself, let alone touch himself. Bathing was a nightmare. Having to undress in front of a mirror, for one thing. But having to take a wash cloth to his skin unsettled him. No matter how long he spent under the running water, he never felt clean.

He felt it should be an enjoyable experience, the way the other guys talk about it at school after Quidditch practice. But all it did for Harry was make him feel exposed.

Sometimes he would turn the water off and sit down in the tub, naked and shivering cold and miserable. As though to punish himself for all the things he had done wrong in his life.

* * *

Above all else, Harry felt guilt. Guilty for being such a burden to his relatives. Guilty for the death of Cedric Diggory ( _don't think about him_ ). Guilty for the second rise of Voldemort. Guilty for his parents' deaths. Guilty for –

Harry's head was spinning. The whole room felt like it was rotating, and he found himself having trouble keeping up right. He decided to sit down on the floor, so that if he were to pass out, he would already be on the ground. He momentarily forgot where he was and what he was doing. He felt nauseated.

"What's the matter with you?" A voice asked from somewhere above him.

""m sorry." He said dazedly, on instinct. He looked up. It was Dudley who had spoken to him. Harry's thoughts came rushing back into his head, as though someone let open the flood gates. He was on the floor in the kitchen. He had been in the middle of making sandwiches for lunch. And Aunt Petunia had told him he could make one for himself.

When he thought he could stand without falling over, he stood up slowly. His vision momentarily went black, but it returned soon enough. He set back to making the sandwiches, the sound of his cousin complaining about being hungry in the background.

This was not the first time he had blacked out this summer. He had lost hours to it – a whole day, once. He falls into a memory and the next thing he knows he's somewhere else with no recollection of how he got there or what he was doing.

* * *

The letters Harry had been receiving from his friends so far this summer were all so vague. But they hinted they were together, and that made him angry. He tried not to let it bother him, tried to tell himself he was only jumping to conclusions, but the thought of his friends spending the summer together while he wasted away at the Dursleys' made him envious to say the least.

* * *

Harry enjoyed spending time at the playground in his neighborhood. It was nearly always empty by the end of the day, which was about the time he finished his chores. He would sit on the swings and think. His mind always wandered back to the same topics, like a broken record: the graveyard, his friends, death.

He rarely saw Dudley and his gang at that park. No, they would hang out nearer the schools. But one day they did come to the park. Dudley had ridiculed Harry in front of the rest of the gang – not that it mattered, this wasn't new to him.

But Harry lost his cool. He was running on three days without proper sleep. He drew his wand on Dudley, in plain view of the rest of the gang. The rest of the guys laughed; they didn't know. But Dudley did know. And Harry found a little too much satisfaction in the look of terror on his cousin's face.

But that's when things got strange. It had grown colder in the few moments of their standoff. The sky had become heavily overcast, completely hiding the sun from view. The grass had seemed more yellow than it did only moments before.

In hindsight, Harry felt he should have recognized the signs sooner.

* * *

The dementor attack left Harry feeling paranoid. Was it Voldemort who had sent them? Was he watching Harry – watching him unravel? Was he going to send more?

Harry did not blame Uncle Vernon for wanting him out of the house. Harry was a danger to them, just as Harry was a danger to everyone else in his life. No one was safe with him.

Uncle Vernon had had such a murderous look on his face, hand gripping a shuddering Dudley's shoulder. Not for the first time in his life, Harry had thought he was going to die right then and there.

* * *

Harry's mind was a hurricane. So many questions, too few answers. The words of the letters were echoing through his brain. _Don't leave the house again. Remember my last._ Harry wanted answers, but he was tired.

It was too much. It was all too much. The nightmares, the flashbacks, the panic attacks. The radio silence, the vague letters, the lack of news. The dementors in Little Whinging. Harry was so, so tired.

As soon as he was dismissed, Harry went up to his room. He pulled out three separate pieces of parchment, intending to write to Ron, Hermione, and Sirius. But then he changed his mind.

A thought struck him, not for the first time that summer. A dark thought, but one he had been subconsciously contemplating since he saw his parents' echoes come from Voldemort's wand. Since he was being tortured to the point he could no longer stand it. Since the guilt of losing a friend was still fresh in his heart.

He sat back on the floor and stared at the blank parchment in front of him, deep in thought. He thought he felt someone watching him, but it was only Hedwig. She hooted softly, as though she expected she would be needed soon. The corners of Harry's mouth quirked up into something close to a smile. The closest to a smile he had come to all summer.

The letter was not an easy one to write, but he felt he could put it off no longer. The hardest part was deciding who to address it to. Once he got that down, everything else fell into place. He knew what he wanted to say.

He was careful writing the letter. His handwriting as neat as he could make it. He made sure not to accidentally blot the page with spilled ink.

* * *

Harry lay on his bed, thoughts speeding through his mind. His relatives were going out. That meant he was going to be home alone for the majority of the night. He knew what he was going to do. Uncle Vernon had locked the door to his bedroom, but that wasn't going to stop him.

 _One more spell can't hurt_ , he thought to himself.

" _Alohomora_." He said aloud, pointing his wand at the locks on his bedroom door. He couldn't help but to smile, marveling at the simple magic.

His thoughts were interrupted when he heard Hedwig hoot from her cage behind him. He felt a flash of guilt. He couldn't leave her… not like this. He opened the window to his room, and cool evening air rushed in to greet him. It was enough to clear his mind, but not to change it. He opened her cage, and set her free. He watched her fly off into the night sky. He silently thanked her for her companionship.

Harry walked across the hall to the bathroom, went inside, and closed the door behind him. He gently set his letter on the counter next to the sink.

He couldn't help himself – he looked in the mirror. His reflection gazed back at him, completely apathetic to what he was about to do. He looked away when he could no longer stand to look at himself.

He reached into the medicine cabinet and fumbled around for what he was looking for – a razor blade. He felt a flash of sick triumph when he found it.

For the first time since the graveyard, his hands were not shaking.

He walked to the empty bathtub and, fully clothed, climbed in.

He pulled back the sleeves of his baggy shirt.

He lifted the blade to his wrist.

* * *

 _Mum,_

 _I never wanted this. Any of it. I never wanted you, or Dad, or anyone to die for me. And I fear that if I go on, I'll lose everyone. Sirius, Ron, Hermione… I can't let that happen. I can't be responsible for any more deaths. Which is why I've decided I'm coming to you._

 _There's just one thing I want to warn you before you see me… I've changed. I'm not the soft-skinned infant you sacrificed your life for. I'm so dirty. My only hope is that you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I won't ask for anything more._

 _Your son,_

 _Harry James Potter_


	3. Chapter 3

Harry was screaming. Everything hurt. Hot searing pain through his head, forearms, and scar. It only made sense that death should hurt this much. He hadn't been expecting anything different, having known little else. Still, he had hoped for better.

"I don't want to hurt anymore!" He tried to call out. It came out rough and broken. He wasn't sure who would hear his pleading anyway, or if they would care at all what he wanted.

He felt – _felt?_ – hands on him. Touching his hair, his arms. He wanted it to stop. He tried to fight the hands off, but he found his arms were too heavy.

Suddenly, Harry became very aware of his body. His lungs, expanding in and deflating out in rapid succession. His heart, thumping loudly against his ribcage.

He was alive. Emotions flooded his brain – a confusing mix of dread and relief.

"Shh, Harry…" Said a voice. Harry's heart sped up tenfold. It could only be one person. Uncle Vernon. _He's home, he's seen the mess I've made, and he's angry_. Harry began to panic.

"I'm sorry! Please, I'll clean it up… I'm so sorry. Please." He desperately pleaded.

"Shh…" The voice said. Only it was spoken with an unfamiliar gentleness. Without the gruff of his uncle's voice. "Harry… Open your eyes…"

Harry tried to do what he was told. But he shut his eyes as soon as he opened them; it was too bright. The glimpse of light burned a white bar across the blackness of the backs of his eyelids.

"Please… I don't want to be here…" He was begging for mercy. "I don't want to…"

Harry's ears were ringing. Head pounding. Heart racing.

Everything went dark.

* * *

Harry came to again, some indefinite time later. He saw black, and felt vertigo. He felt he was going to be sick. The pain had simmered down to a dull, aching throb. He was getting used to it.

Harry opened his eyes. The room was dim. The only light coming from a lamp in the far corner of the room. It didn't take long for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. There was a single window, and there was darkness outside of it. It was night time.

Harry looked around the room. It was not a room he recognized. But there was a familiar face. Sirius. And Sirius wasn't dead, so that only confirmed… Harry dropped his head back against the pillow – and regretted the motion instantly when his headache flared up – and closed his eyes. He had failed. He could not even kill himself properly. Aunt Petunia was right. He was a good for nothing freak.

He opened his eyes and looked down at his arms, which were sore. There were bandages wrapped around his forearms. He vaguely wondered how they got there.

He looked back over at Sirius, who was falling asleep in a chair next to the bed Harry was occupying. His eyes were closed. His head kept dipping down and bobbing back up, as though the weight of it was too much for his neck.

Harry would have smiled at the sight of his godfather looking so peaceful, but there were more pressing thoughts on his mind. How much did Sirius know? _Had he seen me – unconscious in the bathtub, covered in blood? Did he judge me – realize I'm a pathetic excuse of a godson who isn't worth the trouble?_

Harry's eyes grew unfocused and glazed over. His heart rate sped up, as did his breathing. Thoughts were speedily flashing through his mind, each one more pessimistic and drastic than the last. _He won't want me anymore. I'm expelled, I've got nowhere else to go. I'll have to – I'll just –_

Harry heard a small cough, someone clearing their throat. His eyes refocused on Sirius's face, only for him to look away quickly. Sirius was looking at him intently; Harry could feel his eyes on the back of his head. He did not want to see the look on his face. What would he find?

Harry built up the courage to look at Sirius's face. When he did, he did not find what he expected to see. There was no judgment or disgust on his godfather's face. Instead, the young face was aged severely with worry, sadness, and something else Harry couldn't place. Harry had to look away again.

"Harry, look at me." Sirius said patiently. "It's okay. You're going to be okay. You're safe, now."

Harry felt a single tear roll down his face. It was the first time he had shed a tear since coming back from the graveyard, holding Cedric's dead body (don't think about that). No one was ever there to tell him, "it's okay," and yet here was his godfather, telling him everything was going to be okay. Despite the events of the night. Harry could not believe it. He felt like nothing was ever going to be okay. He said nothing.

Harry looked determinedly at the dark window, pretending as though he saw something interesting outside. He stared, not wanting to look back at his godfather.

He was feeling very tired all of a sudden. A yawn escaped his lips.

"Harry," Sirius prompted gently. "You need a good night's sleep. I don't know the last time you had one. This should help you."

Curiosity getting the better of him, Harry looked back at last. Sirius was holding out a small bottle of some unknown liquid. Harry looked at him, confused.

"It's a potion for Dreamless Sleep." Sirius explained. "Just for tonight."

Harry felt himself nod, too tired to care. He had so many questions, but the next thing he knew, the bottle was in his hands, and he was taking a sip.

A calm spread over him. It was not unlike being under the Imperius Curse. He could not remember what he was so worked up about only moments before. The pain was starting to dissipate.

Harry succumbed to the darkness once more.

* * *

When Harry woke up, Sirius was gone. Early morning sunlight filtered through the window and cast across his bed. He was feeling rested, for the first time that summer.

It was quiet. There was no noise other than his own light breathing. The quiet put him on edge.

Now that he was no longer tired, he had questions and he wanted answers. He sat up slowly, to avoid blacking out in some unknown place. He had no idea where he was. He was warier now, without his godfather beside him.

There was a quiet knock on the door, and he jumped. He didn't have time to recover and respond when the door creaked open and Sirius poked his head inside. They made eye contact, grey meeting green.

"Oh, you're up!" Sirius whispered. It was all Harry could do to nod in response. "Do you mind if I come in?"

Harry shrugged. This was not his room, and he did not feel comfortable giving someone permission to enter. But Sirius seemed to take his shrug as a yes, and walked in. He took up the seat he had been sitting in the previous night.

"How are you feeling? Are you hungry?" He asked.

"Not really," Harry replied, avoiding the first question.

"Maybe later, then." Harry was thankful Sirius did not push him about it.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Harry had many questions, but he was afraid to ask. Growing up with the Dursleys, he learned at a young age that questions were forbidden. But this was Sirius, not them… _Would he mind?_

"Hey, Sirius…" Harry began slowly and carefully. "May I ask you a question?"

"Didn't you just?" Asked Sirius playfully. Harry hesitated, a small part of him trying to refrain from rolling his eyes. "But yes, of course you can. You don't have to ask first."

"I was just wondering… Where are we, exactly?" Harry asked tentatively. He paused for a moment, then asked, "And how did I get here?"

"We are at Number 12 Grimmauld Place. The house where I grew up, actually." Said Sirius. "The Order… They – er – picked you up last night…" Sirius's voice hesitated on the last few words and eventually dropped off completely. Harry awkwardly looked at his hands. Sirius's answer had only led Harry to more questions. But he was afraid to ask anymore, for fear of his godfather growing impatient with him.

Curiosity got the better of him. "The Order?" He asked.

"Oh! Of course, sorry. Moody, Remus, Kingsley, Tonks, and a few others, specifically." Sirius seemed to have missed Harry's question. Harry did not recognize the last two names. More questions.

He imagined strangers – wizards, no less – breaking in to his relatives' plain home. He imagined someone like Mad-Eye Moody clunking up the stairs above where he used to sleep. He imagined how they found him, unconscious in the bathtub, covered in blood. But there was a silver lining – Sirius hadn't been there. So perhaps he did not see him like that. But surely he knew what happened.

Harry was staring down at his forearms in silence. He wondered if Sirius was finding the silence as painfully uncomfortable as he was.

"Harry, may I ask you… I just… I want to know… Why." Sirius said, breaking the silence. Harry looked at him eventually. He saw the man, his godfather, searching his face desperately for something. Harry finally recognized the emotion on Sirius's face. It was guilt. But why?

"It's not your fault." Harry said quickly and honestly. "It's… complicated. But it is not your fault. Please believe me."

Sirius did not seem to relax with that.

"I just… I can't help but feel… I fear I've done so wrong by you." Sirius said. He looked absolutely miserable. "I want you to know that you can trust me. With anything. There is nothing you could do or say that would make me upset with you. I care about you, so much."

Harry felt yet another tear run down his face. _What is wrong with me_ , he thought. He hoped desperately that Sirius would not notice. He made no move to wipe it away, for fear of drawing attention to it.

"I know. I trust you." Harry said hollowly, feeling like that was what his godfather wanted to hear.

"Then why… Why did you not feel you could come to me? Or even anyone? Why didn't you tell anyone how you felt?" Sirius was asking difficult questions. Questions that Harry did not have answers for.

Why didn't he? Was it that he felt no one would believe him if he did? The Ministry and the Prophet were already calling him a liar as it was. Would it have been just another "cry for attention"? Was it that he didn't want to be any more of a burden? He was already asking so much of his loved ones just to be near him. Perhaps he just wanted a quiet way out. He should have known better.

"I don't know." Harry admitted.

"I thought… I thought I lost you…" Sirius whispered. He wasn't looking at Harry, anymore. "I can't lose you… Not you, too…"

Harry felt a sharp pang of guilt in his chest. He swallowed hard and reached out for his godfather's hand.

"It's okay, now." Harry repeated the words Sirius had spoken to him the night before. He wasn't sure if that was what his godfather wanted to hear.

Sirius grasped Harry's hand back, his grip firm. It reminded Harry of the time Aunt Petunia dragged him roughly by the arm out of the zoo after the incident with the snake enclosure. His mind went to the beating that followed, and the days after spent locked in the cupboard under the stairs.

"I'm sorry." Harry said on instinct, rather suddenly. He did not want to be in trouble again. Not with his godfather. He would be good. He would be the person Sirius wanted him to be.

Sirius looked up at him, his hold going slack. Harry felt relief. He let go of the breath he did not realize he had been holding.

"It's okay. You're right. It's okay, now." Sirius echoed, nodding slightly, as though he was trying to reassure himself as much as he was Harry.

Harry could not help but think things were very much not okay. His thought were flying through his brain in a distressing blur. He felt trapped. He needed a way out. Thankfully, he was given one.

"I'll go make us a cuppa." Sirius said after a minute. "I'll be right back." With that, he let go of Harry's hand and exited the room. Harry felt blank. Felt as though there was a void where his hand once was. He shook his head, for that was a ridiculous notion.

Still, he looked down at his arm to ensure it was still there.


End file.
